Sweet Dreams
by IntimatelyYours
Summary: "Poor, poor Ryan. You've disappeared so far into my mind, you've finally lost yours." Ryan X Joe Oneshot


Ryan lay flat on his back, trying in vain to push his mind down into the soft bosom of the mistress he called sleep. He kicked off his blanket and spread his arms out over the clean Egyptian cotton. Swallowing, and slid his tongue along his top teeth. He remembered to brush them before heading off to bed. A small victory: he had to keep reminding himself of the little things. _Change your underwear. Change your sheets. Take a shower. Drink enough to kill the nightmares, but not too much._ Never drink too much.

Ryan grunted, and tried to shift his body sideways. His arms seemed as heavy as two concrete blocks.

He tried again, but his arms refused to move.

Starting to panic, he pulled and twisted, but his arms refused to obey.

He snapped his eyes open. A ball of vomit caught in his throat as he gazed around at the sterile scenery before him.

It was a modern operating room, fully equipped with a sink, adjustable ceiling lights suspended on titanium rods, and a standing metal tray donning an array of surgical instruments. Some, he noticed, were new and familiar. A scalpel, a little pick, a small gauze pad and some stitching wire. The other instruments looked as if they belonged in a medieval torture chamber- A cat o' nine tails whip, a pair of iron shackles, and a lit pillar candle that oozed red wax. The flame danced and whirred, sending up a tiny puff of black smoke.

He turned his head and looked at his arms. Each arm was stretched out and strapped down with two thick bands of brown leather. The cold metal slab warmed beneath him, and he realized that he wasn't wearing a shirt. He attempted to move his legs, but they were spread out and strapped down as well. He brought his chin to his chest, and looked down at himself. The table he was bound to was angled at 45 degrees, and he could see that he was wearing his favorite pair of jeans. _Good_. He let his head rest against the table. _At least I'm not naked_.

"Now now. Let's not dwell on things soon to pass."

Ryan gasped, and the metal slab shook.

"It is _so_ good to see you again, Ryan. Although I must say, the pleasure is_ all mine_." Joe Carroll seemingly materialized from thin air, appearing in front of Ryan. He was clad in a tailored pinstripe suit, which clung onto his lithe body as if it were a well fitting glove. He gave off an air of regality, which was amplified by his high shirt collar and shiny, black crocodile skin shoes.

"Not this again." Ryan's words dripped out freely, tumbling and flapping around long enough to form a coherent sentence in his scattered mind.

A small smirk quirked the corners of Carroll's mouth, and Ryan watched as he ran his tongue along his upper lip. Slowly…so, so slowly…

"Isn't it interesting, Ryan, that you know you are dreaming yet you only dream of me?"

_I will not let Carroll in._

"My poor detective. You've already let me in. I've been in your head for years, _Ryan_." Ryan's body betrayed him, and he sighed.

_The way he says my name._

"Do you know how many women wish that they could be in your position at this moment? Spread out, immobile…giving me full authority to strip their little minds down and leave them begging for my voice: pleading and writhing until there is nothing left but a beautiful human shell." Joe approached, tilting his head and observing his prey. He reached towards Ryan with his right hand. Delicately, he began to pull his index finger along the hills and valleys of Ryan's scarred chest.

_Goddamn._

As if on cue, Ryan's body responded with a groan.

"You could be dreaming of my wife. You could be dreaming of that Italian supermodel you had a fling with back in college. Yet you chose to dream of me."

"I didn't choose!"

Joe laughed. A deep, sensual laugh that echoed through the operating room.

Hardy watched as the twisted image of Carroll leaned forward, closer-

_Closer._

Carroll brought his pink lips to Hardy's ear, his hot breath assaulting all five of his senses as a rush of euphoria sparked down his spine. Ryan's heartbeat pounded. The smell of Carroll's cologne was on the brink of intoxicating. It was a putridly sweet brew of floral essence and musk.  
_  
What the hell am I thinking?_

Joe straightened, running a hand down his suit jacket to wipe away a flurry of imaginary dust particles.

"My dearest, flawed creation. You chose me the very first second we locked eyes. You seemed to like what you saw, and," Carroll paused. "People think that I have a sick obsession, when it is you who is obsessed with me. You let me consume your life and your work. And the very, very sad punch line of it all—"

Carroll cracked another infamous smile. "Is that you _wanted_ me to consume you."

"No!"

"You are fascinated by me. You think that alcohol is your only problem, but I am your true addiction. Nobody in your life has told you where to go, or what to do. You have no consequences for disobedience."

_I can't._

"You want me. You want me to strip you down, flay you alive and tear your skin apart with my intellect." Carroll drew out each syllable, weaving his words into a vivid tapestry. He laughed his dirty laugh once more.

Ryan entertained the idea that he finally snapped and was having a total mental shutdown.

"I want you dead, you sadistic bastard." Ryan spat, anger seeping through the pores of his skin.

Joe sighed. It sounded vaguely erotic.

_Like a hot knife through flesh._

"What the hell have you done to me!?" The disgraced lawman yelled, yanking on his restraints.

"Poor, poor Ryan. You've disappeared so far into my mind, you've finally lost yours."

Ryan coughed, half expecting a stream of alcohol to spew forth from between his chapped lips. "You won't win, Carroll." He eyed the devil in a suit, his gaze wandering along Joe's body.

Carroll reached out, again, placing his left palm over Ryan's pacemaker. He leaned towards his face, and met his gaze with a subdued cruelty glowing from his eyes.

For a second, Ryan wondered what it would feel like to taste Joe's silver tongue.

"Ooh. How depraved of you." Joe inched closer.

Ryan knew he was dreaming. He wanted to get up, down a gallon of vodka, pop an Oxy and snort cocaine off of a stripper's ass until the sun went down. He never had an issue with any substance other than alcohol, but he was desperate to feel a sensation other than the persistent trident of guilt, PTSD, and longing.

Fuck the job. Fuck the literary bullshit.

_Fuck everything_.

"It's time to get up. Go to work. Haul yourself out of that dingy little hole you call a home and pretend that you want to put a bullet through my head. Come on, Hardy. Have some faith."

_My faith ran out a long damn time ago._

Carroll hummed. "Faith is but a poor man's tool to achieve the idiotic dream of salvation." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Perhaps you are beyond faith."

In one smooth motion, Joe pressed his mouth against Ryan's. He did it slowly. _Intimately_.

Ryan didn't care enough to protest.

He opened his mouth, letting Joe in. Their tongues snaked and lips caressed. Ryan tilted his head further back, and Joe's hand wandered softly down Ryan's torso. A tide of unhinged pleasure swept through him, and Ryan found himself contorting under the sensuous strokes of the famed serial killer.

_He tastes better than honey._

An electric buzz jolted Ryan out of his lucid fantasy, and shockd him awake. He sat up too quickly, nearly falling out of his bed in the process.

Slamming his hand down on the glowing alarm clock, his breath heaved out in short, ragged gasps. Sunlight filtered in through the sheer curtains, alerting Ryan that it was the start of yet another day.

Ryan licked his lips and checked his arms.

_Just a dream. Thank God._

For once, he felt a willingness to get up and head over to the precinct, but not before a long cold shower.

And then, maybe, some honey on toast.


End file.
